Then he climbed to the tower of the church,
  Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
  To the belfry-chamber overhead,
  And startled the pigeons from their perch
  On the sombre rafters, that round him made
  Masses and moving shapes of shade,—­
  Up the light ladder, slender and tall,
  To the highest window in the wall,
  Where he paused to listen and look down
  A moment on the roofs of the town,
  And the moonlight flowing over all.

  Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead
  In their night-encampment on the hill,
  Wrapped in silence so deep and still,
  That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
  The watchful night-wind, as it went
  Creeping along from tent to tent,
  And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
  A moment only he feels the spell
  Of the place and the hour, the secret dread
  Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
  For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
  On a shadowy something far away,
  Where the river widens to meet the bay,—­
  A line of black, that bends and floats
  On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

  Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
  Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,
  On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere
  Now he patted his horse’s side,
  Now gazed on the landscape far and near,
  Then impetuous stamped the earth,
  And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;
  But mostly he watched with eager search
  The belfry-tower of the old North Church,
  As it rose above the graves on the hill,
  Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and still.

  And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height,
  A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! 
  He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
  But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
  A second lamp in the belfry burns!

  A hurry of hoofs in a village-street,
  A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
  And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
  Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet: 
  That was all!  And yet, through the gloom and the light,
  The fate of a nation was riding that night;
  And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
  Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

  It was twelve by the village-clock,
  When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 
  He heard the crowing of the cock,
  And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
  And felt the damp of the river-fog,
  That rises when the sun goes down.

  It was one by the village-clock,
  When he rode into Lexington. 
  He saw the gilded weathercock
  Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
  And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
  Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
  As if they already stood aghast
  At the bloody work they would look upon.